Bonfire Night
by Aderyn Westenra
Summary: "Remember, remember, the fifth of November". Britain gets drunk on Bonfire Night and reminisces about the Gunpowder Plot. France is witness to his ancient enemy's memories and helps him through the annual bout of flashbacks. Mainly fluff, some sexual scenes and references and foul language; hence the M rating. Happy Bonfire Night, everyone!


France's house was large, and although relatively clean and organized it was not free of clutter. The surface of the small table in the library was covered in various books and rolls of film which had been taken from their places on the shelves and never returned. The kitchen counter was typically littered with yet-unwashed dishes. The pillows on the small bench in the conservatory were limp and messily positioned, and it was not unusual for at least one of them to be on the floor. Possibly the worst of all, however, was his bedroom. Several blank canvasses leaned against the wall in the corner while an unfinished painting still rested on its easel. A wooden artist's figure lay on the floor by the small bookshelf not far away, as if it had committed suicide by leaping from the top shelf.

As France walked – or rather, carried – Britain through the house, he noticed each article of this glaring evidence of his slight tendency to laziness and grimaced, though he was sure Britain was far too drunk to notice how messy the house was. The shorter blond man had shown up at his house stumbling and bleary-eyed, but strangely coherent. He wasn't angry or irritable as he usually was when he drank too much – just very listless and empty. France thought he knew why, but Britain slurred out an explanation anyway.

"I've lost so much money." He said, his balance beginning to fail as though the words spilling from his own mouth had rendered him physically unstable. "I've lost colonies." His glassy green eyes blinked heavily and he swallowed thickly, leaning forward so far that France had to catch him to stop him from falling. Holding Britain up with his right arm wound around his waist, France found his other hand curling around Britain's. His fingers brushed over the burn scars on Britain's palm, reminding him what day it was. It was probably another reason for the strong smell of rum on the green-eyed nation's breath.

"It is the fifth of November, is it not?" France asked, his eyes meeting Britain's. Something flashed in those emerald eyes and France braced himself for the verbal abuse he was so used to from Britain, but it didn't come. Instead, Britain's eyes dropped and he nodded slowly. He took his hand away from France, not without some degree of bitterness in his mannerism, and gazed at the red scars himself.

"It's not… as bad as it could have been." He commented.

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" France asked, wondering why he bothered to muse aloud in his typical way when Britain was probably too intoxicated to think that deeply. With a sigh, he brought his rival inside and closed the door, still supporting a good deal of Britain's weight.

"I don't know." Britain replied as he was led through the kitchen with its small stack of dirty dishes, through the library with the out-of-place books and films, by the doorway to the conservatory with its neglected bench and up the stairs to the only bedroom.

"_Quoi?"_ France asked.

"I don't know… if it's good or not. Sometimes I think I should never have stopped it. James was… kind of…"

Britain's train of thought ended in a disgusted grunt. Despite his difficulty in expressing his thoughts, France could still follow them. There were so many questions he wanted to ask – most of all, why Britain had come to him of all people – but they would have to wait until the morning, when Britain would be painfully sober again. Too tired to start bickering with the intoxicated man purely for bickering's sake the way they normally did, he just lay Britain down unceremoniously on the dark red covers of the bed and with a crooked, sensual grin that he knew he used all too often, tucked one short lock of fair hair behind his ancient enemy's ear. Now that Britain wasn't talking in that annoying, self-righteous way of his, he was actually somewhat attractive. Always the flirt, France accompanied the gesture with a quick wink before he turned to leave. To his surprise, he was stopped by the weak grasp of Britain's long, thin fingers around his own. He turned back to see Britain's wide eyes capturing his own, their gaze wavering due to the alcohol in his system. He clenched his fist with France's fingers still weaved in-between his own and pulled his arm weakly toward him.

France could take the hint.

He walked forward the single step necessary to bring him to the edge of the bed, then climbed onto it. Britain wordlessly let go of his hand and tangled his fingers into the collar of France's lavender shirt, pulling him forward further and further, until France was almost on top of him, forced to reach one arm across to the other side of Britain's chest to keep himself balanced.

"I hate you, France." Britain said bluntly, "I really do. But not… not as much as I let on."

"You are drunk, _mon ami_." France replied, not without a small smile. "Wait until the morning before you say such rash things."

"Fuck you, France, I know what I'm doing." Britain retorted. With a swift tug at the cloth of France's shirt, he brought himself up to a sitting position, leaning back on his elbow. The glint of fury in his eyes didn't fade as he brought their lips together, and France exhaled a gasp of surprise as he tasted the swirl of rum and undertones of beer laced into Britain's kiss. It was intoxicating in its own right, and would have been even without the warm flash of alcohol. France felt his cheeks flush darkly and after only a moment of hesitation, he leaned into his fellow nation's desperate grasp. He tilted his head, locking their lips more firmly together, and after a few seconds of doubt shifted one leg over to straddle Britain's hips. In that moment, at the most inappropriate time, it suddenly occurred to France how much he and the man he didn't really hate all that much either had been through together, both the bad and, far more rarely, the good. He didn't know why that thought had come to mind, why centuries of memories suddenly flashed before him. Perhaps it was because what he did now could change everything.

_Bullshit_.

No matter what happened here and now, he and Britain were too caught up in their cemented, dysfunctional relationship of back-and-forth insults filled with both real and fake hatred to stop anytime in the foreseeable future.

_So fuck it._

France pressed himself into Britain's torso, forcing him to lie back on the pillows. He moved his mouth cleverly, levering open Britain's lips to deepen the kiss. Impatient, France licked deeply into the strong taste of alcohol that tainted Britain's saliva and ran his tongue along the roof of the other man's mouth. He reached one hand up to grab Britain's neck and pushed himself forward with the other, making their teeth click together. Britain made a drunken sound in the back of his throat that may have been a moan.

And then France pulled back, his irrational passion suddenly overridden by strangely rational logic.

"Clearly, you do not." He muttered, his heightened feelings making his accent even stronger.

"What?" Britain slurred.

"_Tu ne sais pas ce que tu fait, Angleterre._" France replied, "You do _not_ know what you are doing."

Britain scowled. Silence closed in on them, thick and binding, until he broke it again.

"I hate you so much, France."

"_Oui_," France said with a sigh as he got up from the bed and left the room, turning off the light on his way out, "_Je sais_. Please sleep, _Angleterre_. I will see you tomorrow."

xxx

Swimming in a darkness shot through with pain, Britain dragged his way out of unconsciousness, mentally clawing at his eyelids until he managed to open them heavily. He knew where he was. He remembered everything. And he would have smacked himself in the head for all the stupid things he had done if not for the fact that his head hurt enough already. He lay there drowning in the events of the previous evening for what felt like an hour at the very least. Time dragged by, slower and slower with each pulse of hot blood that seemed to stab knives into his brain and sabotage his sensitive ears. Feeling heavy and alien in his own body, he dragged himself out of bed and walked, zombie-like, towards the door. The clicking sound of the doorknob turning under his shaking hand was like that of a flashbang, and he winced at the noise as he opened the door. He hid his eyes from the sunlight that streamed from the windows has he walked downstairs. After some searching, he found France in the library, reading a book that he had plucked from the pile on the table. Britain stood awkwardly in the doorway until the other country looked up at him.

"Ah, you are awake!" France said. His enthusiasm perfectly masked how awkward he felt in reality, and he even managed to smile with the translucently cruel undertone that he always reserved for Britain.

"Could you possibly speak any louder, you bloody git?" Britain asked rhetorically, bringing his fingers to his temple as pain sang through his ears and crashed around in his skull.

"_Je suis d__ésolé_, ", France replied resentfully, albeit in a much softer tone, "It is not my fault you are so hung over. Next time I will not make the mistake of offering you a place to sleep. It was my mistake to think that you would be grateful."

"Alright, I – I'm bloody _sorry_, alright?" Britain said, crossing the room to stand right in front of the armchair in which France sat cross-legged with that damnable critical look on his face. "Is that what you wanted to hear? I'm sorry. I'm sorry for bothering you in the middle of reading your philosophical trash, I'm sorry for insulting you after you took me in, I'm sorry for everything that happened last night. I'm just bloody sorry. Are you happy now? I _didn't_ know what I was doing. But you know what? Fuck you for playing along with it. You just have to take advantage of everyone, don't you, France?"

For a moment, France just sat rooted to the spot. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he closed the book and placed it back on the table. He leaned back in the chair and let one corner of his mouth flicker up into a victorious smile that meant he had a good comeback and he knew it.

"_Mon Angleterre_, if I had truly taken advantage of you as you say, I would not have stopped when I did."

Britain was noticeably flustered. A deep shade of pink rose in his cheeks and he opened his mouth wordlessly, looking for all the world like a fish out of water, gasping for breath, as he tried and failed to think of a rebuttal. France stood up gracefully, the simple act bringing his face little more than a few centimeters from Britain's. He whispered his next words, inflicting them with all the emphasis he could.

"It took an enormous amount of restraint _not_ to take advantage of you, _Angleterre_. And since you were the one who initiated it, it appears that you are the one who wronged me."

France's eyes suddenly dropped, unable to hold his gaze with Britain, and he caught a glimpse of the red scar running from the shorter nation's wrist down to his palm. Britain saw where France's gaze had landed and yanked down the sleeve of his shirt so that it hid the scar from sight.

"Is it true, what you said?" France asked, his eyes meeting Britain's again in an almost playful look as he wound a short strand of his rival's hair around his finger. "That you do not hate me as much as you pretend to?"

Britain was taken aback once again and leaned away from France defensively.

"Of- of course it's not bloody true! I hate you every bit as much as you deserve, you arrogant bastard!"

"Really?" France asked, the chance to toy with Britain quickly becoming irresistible as he stepped in closer and locked his hands behind Britain's back, tugging him roughly forward so that their hips ground together. France didn't try to deny to himself that he loved the feeling. "Because I think you may just hate the fact that you _don't_ hate me, _mon chou_."

"Everything you do gets on my nerves." Britain growled through gritted teeth, "I _should_ hate you."

"But you do not!" France interjected with triumph.

"Prove it." Britain dared.

This time, there was no hesitation. As soon as the words had left Britain's mouth, France seized his chance and dove in. Their mouths collided as perfectly as a car wreck, France's grip around Britain's hips tightening as he found the Black Sheep of Europe's tongue with his own. He could feel the shiver that ran down Britain's spine and felt a strange thrill rush through his own body as Britain reluctantly dared to prove France right and kiss back.

When they pulled away to breathe, both of them were glaring at each other defiantly. Noticing this, France cracked a disgustingly likeable grin.

"And if that weren't reason enough," He chuckled, before suddenly let his expression drop to one of seriousness as he voiced the question that had been burning on his tongue, "Then why did you come to me last night and not to anyone else?"

Britain smirked cruelly. "Because unlike you, I still have my pride. Going to any other country might mean surrendering that, but I think you and I crossed that line long ago. You've fought with me, you've insulted me, you've mocked every trait you can possibly notice about me and I've done the same with you. I couldn't possibly think any less of you than I already do, and the best I figure is that you feel the same way about me. So unlike the rest of the world, I really don't care what you think of me anymore."

France narrowed his eyes, the kind of glare that could capture souls – any soul, that is, but Britain's. His retaliatory green eyes were cold with the routine, uncaring hatred he had reserved only for France so long ago.

"You kissed me." France pointed out, "And you would have let me done more if I had wanted. That's a strange way of hating someone."

"I was drunk."

"But you are not now."

And with that, France kissed Britain again, and pulled him in even tighter than before until their ribs ground together with every hungry breath. Britain's head pounded painfully and after an increasingly unbearable minute or so with very little oxygen, he tilted his head back away from France's soft lips to empty his lungs with a deep moan. He took a few seconds just to breathe before France greedily stole him back again.

"Bastard." Britain whispered. France responded with the signature chuckle that annoyed Britain to no end and dove into their heated kiss again. Their hips ground together fiercely and France grunted deliciously into Britain's mouth. Britain grew weak at the knees and France was more than happy to lower him to the floor. They tangled together there in a heap just as disorganized as the books on the table, the pillows on the conservatory bench, the neglected art supplies in the bedroom. France gently slipped one hand between Britain's legs, and to his surprise Britain scowled and broke away again.

"I hate you." He said.

"I hate you too." France replied, "But I like you a lot more when you don't talk."

He tried to render Britain silent with another kiss, but Britain squirmed back. Not easily discouraged, France let his lips fall to Britain's neck, but it wasn't long before he sensed that Britain had lost interest, at least for the moment. There was something still very empty about him, like a residual sadness from the previous evening, and France reluctantly rose to his feet, offering a hand to Britain. The shorter man sneered and got up without accepting France's help. He brushed off his shirt as if trying to sweep away any evidence that France had been on top of him a few seconds before. France could still see a glimmer of darkness in Britain's eyes, and felt the rare emotion of sympathy for the nation.

"Did you have a bonfire last night, _Angleterre_?" He asked softly, "I understand that is what you usually do on the fifth."

Britain dropped his eyes and shook his head.

"Then perhaps we could have one here, tonight."

"I'd rather not spend any more time with you than I have to." Britain said sourly.

"That is a lie, _Angleterre_. Whether you like it or not, you need me."

There was a long silence, and then Britain surrendered.

"Alright. I suppose… I suppose we could have your bloody bonfire."

xxx

Together, they sat staring into the flames in silence. France let his eyes float up to the sky, following the sparks that drifted up with the smoke towards their freedom. He had undone the top two buttons of his shirt and in one limp hand he held a bottle of wine, which he offered to Britain now and again. He watched as Britain leaned forward and pulled up the sleeve on his right arm. As quick as a flash of lightning, his left hand darted into the edge of the flames and brought out a burning coal, which he quickly dropped into his right hand, right in the middle of the raised pinkish scars. He shook the fingers of his left hand violently to cool them off, but his right hand stayed as steady as stone. France looked at him, and Britain looked back.

"I can't hardly feel it." Britain said with a slight chuckle, glancing at the coal in his right hand. "After how badly it was burned before, this is nothing. I guess what I'm trying to say is that once you're hurt too terribly badly, you can't be hurt again. Not in the same place, at least."

"_Je sais_." France replied. "I've had my own share of revolutions."

Britain tossed the coal back into the fire.

"I guess we're not… all _that _different, are we?" He asked grudgingly.

"_Je pense que non_." France replied with a slight smile. He had been through so much in his long life; and so had Britain. They had grown together, like two trees whose roots slowly became intertwined. Sometimes they had hindered, even directly hurt each other, but there were also times when they had helped each other. But in that moment, it really didn't matter. France didn't care what the future held for the two of them. He didn't care what their perverse version of a relationship had in store for him. He didn't care if Britain thought of him as an enemy, a friend, or – God forbid! – a lover. So he didn't bother to ask. What mattered was knowing that Britain would always be there for France to hate or love as he pleased for as long as the both of them lived.

Staring into the orange tongues of flame, France groped blindly beside him until he found Britain's hand. He knotted their fingers together silently, and to his surprise, his rival allowed him to do it. France smiled crookedly.

He hoped they would live for a very long time.


End file.
